Seems I spent half my childhood with my fists up for a fight. I always felt bad, dragging home with a black eye to Mom's look of disapproval. She never scolded me for fighting—she didn't need to. When she frowned, I regretted.
When Dad saw me, he didn't want an explanation. He'd give me a stern look and ask, "Was there any other way to solve the problem?" If there wasn't, he'd give me a reason to think first next time!
Some people only know how to fight with their fists. Dad taught me to fight with my mind.